Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About The Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Copyright

“I have given you my soul.

“Will you not give me anything in return?” Desmond murmured.

“I will play you a game of cards for it,” Marianne replied. “If you win, you may have me. I will come to your bed, willingly, wearing nothing but a smile of invitation. There will be no damnable tears.”

“And if you win?” he asked. “I get Kingsbrook.”

There was a stunned silence. One could almost see the workings in Desmond’s head as he tried to collect his faculties.

“You would get Kingsbrook?” he finally asked, very slowly and carefully.

“Or you would get me,” Marianne said. Desmond narrowed his eyelids and appeared to be considering very seriously. “You value yourself very highly, Miss Trenton, to put your worth equivalent to this grand estate.”

“Rather, Mr. Desmond,” the girl said coolly, “it is a question of how highly you value me…!”

Dear Reader,

This month, author Sally Cheney returns with her fifth historical for Harlequin, The Wager. Known for her ability to capture the flavor of 19th-century England, the author’s new title tells the story of a young woman who sets out to destroy the man who won her in a card game, only to fall in love with him in the process. We hope you enjoy it.

Beloved Outcast by Pat Tracy is a dramatic Western about an Eastern spinster who is hired by a man with a notorious reputation to tutor his adopted daughter. Affaire de Coeur recently labeled Pat as “one author definitely worth watching,” and we hope you agree. This talented author just keeps getting better and better.

Whether writing atmospheric Medievals or sexy Regencies, Deborah Simmons continues to delight readers. In this month’s Maiden Bride, the sequel to The Devil’s Lady, Nicholas de Laci transfers his blood lust to his enemy’s niece, Gillian, his future wife by royal decree. And fans of Romantic Times Career Achievement Award winner Veronica Sattler will be thrilled to see this month’s reissue of her Worldwide Library release, Jesse’s Lady. We hope you’ll enjoy this exciting story of a young heiress and her handsome guardian.

We hope you’ll keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

The Wager
Sally Cheney

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SALLY CHENEY

was a bookstore owner before coming to her first love—writing. She has traveled extensively in the United States, but is happiest with the peaceful rural life in her home state of Idaho. When she is not writing, she is active in community affairs and enjoys cooking and gardening.

To Ursula, in appreciation for her invaluable input

Prologue

London, 1855

“One card.”

“Two.”

“I’ll play these.”

The cards were dealt around the table as requested. Finally the dealer snapped a number of cards off the deck for himself.

“Dealer takes three,” he announced.

The four men sat studying the little rectangles of pasteboard they held with expressions of varying degrees of grimness. The least forbidding of them seemed to be that of the dealer himself, his insouciance owing, no doubt, to the impressive pile of coins and banknotes on the table before him.

“Mr. Phillips, I believe the bid is to you,” he softly reminded the man at his side.

Mr. Phillips’s scowl deepened. “One pound,” he growled at last, adding a heavy coin to the kitty, challenging the player to his left with a scowl.

Mr. Abbot would have faced down his fellow gamester, despite his stern expression, if the gentleman dealing had given him one more face card, but with this hand…

Abbot sighed heavily and pushed his cards together. “Discretion dictates my retreat from the field of battle, I fear,” he said, laying the cards facedown in front of him.

“Mr. Carstairs?” the dealer prompted.

“I’m in,” the third man said sourly, removing several coins from the short stack left before him.

“The dealer meets the bet.” A banknote was added to the collection.

The four men—Phillips, Abbot, Carstairs and the dealer, Mr. Peter Desmond—were not close intimates. Friends was too strong a word. Even acquaintances was. It was not at all certain that if two of them met on the street in daylight they would recognize each other, or, if recognizing the other, would exchange greetings. They met several times a year to play cards. One or more of them always went away a loser, which did nothing to endear them to one another.

“Mr. Phillips? Do you wish to raise or call?” the dealer prompted now.

“I wish to do many things,” Phillips said. “But one’s wishes are not always granted, are they? I fold.”

“Well, Mr. Carstairs, once again it appears only you and I will play out the hand,” the man dealing said. His voice was low, his manner suave and perfectly charming.

Mr. Carstairs pictured his nose smashed and bleeding and wondered how suave and charming he would be then. Although the winners and losers varied with each game the four men played, Mr. Desmond usually left the table with money in his pocket, and Mr. Carstairs usually left with none in his.

“You have most of the money I brought with me, and I would like very much to recoup some of those losses. Let us waste no time. It is all or nothing, Desmond.”

Carstairs pushed the rest of his funds into the center of the table.

Desmond picked up the cigar smoldering in the ashtray at his elbow and put it to his lips as he carefully studied the cards he held and, even more carefully, the man sitting next to him. He squinted against the aromatic cloud of smoke he exhaled, but neither the smoke nor the squint could disguise the fact that he was a vividly handsome man, with dark brown hair, dark gray eyes and a set to his jaw suggesting an iron will.

He tapped the ash from the end of his cigar, then returned it to his mouth, holding it between his teeth. “Unfortunately, Mr. Carstairs, you are in no position to dictate terms,” he said, a silken smile on his lips. “I need only to increase your bet and you lose.”

He began to gather enough coins and bills to do exactly that, but Carstairs, almost frantically, stopped him. “Wait!” he cried. “I said all or nothing.”

“You did,” Desmond agreed. “And you have wagered all and have nothing left.”

“No, no. I have…”

“What, Mr. Carstairs?”

“I have…here, give me a piece of paper.”

“Now, Mr. Carstairs, you know our policy. We have agreed to play only for the monies we brought to the table.” The gentleman sounded genuinely grieved by the fact.

“Not money,” Carstairs murmured, finding a paper and pen on his own person and scribbling something as he spoke. “Better than money.” He reached inside his coat again, found a little pocketbook and, after rummaging through its contents for a moment, extracted a bent and tattered daguerreotype. He passed it and the paper across the table.

“Better than money? I doubt it,” Desmond said, picking up the items Mr. Carstairs had passed to him and studying them both. He raised one eyebrow and then looked up at his fellow gambler for confirmation. “Indeed?” he asked.

“I guarantee it,” Carstairs said firmly.

Desmond took the cigar from between his teeth and laid it carefully in the ashtray again. “I will admit you pique my curiosity.”

“You accept the wager, then?” Carstairs urged.

Desmond hesitated for another moment, but finally nodded. “Very well,” he said. “It might prove something of a…lark. My winnings against this.” He held up the paper and the daguerreotype. “What have you got, Mr. Carstairs?”

Carstairs smiled gloatingly and turned his cards over for the others to see.

“Full house!” he announced triumphantly, splaying the cards on the table before him.

Mr. Phillips and Mr. Abbot murmured in appropriate tones of awe.

Mr. Desmond studied the three knaves and the pair of twos and shook his head slightly.

“Well,” he said, “that beats three of a kind.” Carefully he laid down three threes.

Carstairs chuckled and reached across the table to claim the money.

“However,” the younger gentleman continued, “a full house does not beat four of a kind,” and he coolly laid down a fourth three.

Carstairs fell back in his chair as if he had been dealt a physical blow.

“Buck up, old man,” Desmond said, pulling the winnings across the table, including the scrap of paper and the sepia-toned photograph. “Here’s a little something to get you home.” He selected the heavy coin that had been Mr. Phillips’s last bet and tossed it across the table to the other man. “I would not want to discourage you from letting me win more money from you the next time. Ah, but this—” he picked up the picture and studied it gloatingly “—on this I will expect full payment.”

“Of course,” Carstairs said. “We are at your convenience.”

“What is that?” Mr. Phillips asked curiously, nodding toward Desmond and the picture he held.

“I thought we determined not to play for notes of debenture,” Abbot said reproachfully.

“Indeed we did. But Mr. Carstairs did not offer me a promissory note. It seems he has given me title to his ward, a Miss Marianne Trenton.”

The other two gentlemen laughed as Desmond took up his cigar again with a broad wink.

Chapter One

The night was warm for so early in the summer. The windows were open, inviting every passing breath of fresh air to enter, but they were few and far between and often merely flirted with the window shade.

A young girl sat on the end of the bed, fully dressed.

The ensemble she wore was too warm for the season and too complete for the hour, so it was not surprising if little droplets of sweat had gathered on her brow. But, in fact, the perspiration was there, and running down her back in hot, lazy rivulets, for another reason.

Marianne was waiting for her uncle Horace. His temper was usually vile, but he became violent if he lost at cards. And unfortunately, more often than not, when Horace Carstairs gambled he lost.

The man was not actually her uncle. After the death of her parents the previous year, her father to a hunting accident and her mother three months later to an influenza that found her in a weakened condition owing to her grief, the girl had been assigned by the court to Mr. Carstairs, whose misfortune it had been to be bequeathed some monies in her father’s will to clear an outstanding debt.

“I cannot take the girl,” Carstairs had objected. “I am unmarried. Surely you would not burden an old bachelor like myself with such a responsibility?”

But the court reminded Mr. Carstairs that with the girl a ward of the state, it could, in fact, dispose of her and her modest legacy as it saw fit. Carstairs might have objected further, but the judge agreed to pay him, as guardian, an annual stipend out of the girl’s inheritance.

Mr. Carstairs pursued various ventures in order to make money—some, but not all of them, legal—and being no more an astute businessman than he was a clever card player, he often found himself in need of extra cash. The payment the judge named appeared very attractive to him just then.

Thus it was that Marianne Trenton, so recently part of a loving home and family, had her grief compounded by suddenly becoming the ward of a man she did not know and soon found detestable.

Her schooling had been haphazard, and at the death of her parents, her formal education ended abruptly. But Marianne, alone and largely unnoticed in Mr. Carstairs’s house, became an avaricious reader—almost exclusively of the penny dreadfuls she was able to purchase with the small allowance her “uncle” afforded her.

Tonight, though, as she waited for her guardian, she was too distracted and tense to concentrate on her latest novel, Leonore, Jeune Fille. And when she finally heard Uncle Horace’s key grating in the lock, she jumped in alarm.

Fearfully she listened to her uncle’s progress through the house. She could hear him hanging his overcoat on the tree by the front door. He paused by the table in the foyer to look through the mail. She thought he might turn into the sitting room to read the paper, but after a pause, during which she could imagine him scanning the headlines, his footsteps continued to the stairs.

The heavy clump of shod feet on the risers sounded as if they were produced by a large man. Though relatively tall, Mr. Carstairs was not heavyset, but lean and lanky. His shoulders were narrow, his face, with its pursed lips, pinched nose and close-set eyes, long and thin. Yet his slow, heavy steps up the stairwell seemed almost to shake the house with their weight.

Marianne stiffened, the book in her hands entirely forgotten. If all had gone well tonight Uncle Horace would continue down the hall to his room, and she could finally undress and go to bed. But if he had lost, he would kick the door open and would be upon her before she could assume a position of defense. The amount of abuse she would suffer—the shouts of rage, the blows to her face and bodywould depend on the size of his losses.

His steps neared her door and slowed. Her green eyes opened wide; her breathing grew shallow and almost stopped. “Go on, go on,” she whispered, as he stopped and turned to her door. She sucked in her breath and held it, waiting for his boot to hit the thin panel that separated them.

Instead, there was a soft tap at her door.

Surprised, she released the breath she had been holding. “Come in,” she said.

The door opened slowly. Uncle Horace peeked carefully around the corner, for all the world as if he were making sure she was decent. Such a concern had never suggested itself to him before.

“You are still up,” he said.

“I am,” she replied.

“You were unable to sleep?”

“No, I was waiting…” Her voice trailed away to silence.

“Waiting? For me? I am touched, Marianne.”

She did not reply.

“I have been reviewing our situation here,” he continued when the brief pause indicated the girl was not going to speak. “You know that I am ill suited to raise a young woman, and I suspect you have not been happy here, alone so often, with no young people for companions, no chance to socialize. You are of an age when you should be socializing.”

The girl shifted her feet uncomfortably, one toe nudging the book she had dropped when Carstairs knocked. She had pictured herself of late in situations similar to the ones Leonore, the young heroine, encountered.

“I suppose—” she began.

But the man cut her off. “Perhaps it is time we looked into a new position for you. Something with broader perspectives.” He had half turned, his voice casual, as if he were speaking the thoughts as they occurred to him, but now he peered at her from the side, studying her face.

“Another position? You sound as if I should be seeking employment. Am I seeking employment, Uncle Horace?” she asked.

“No, no. I misspoke. You misunderstood. But another house, a broader acquaintance, that is what I am suggesting.”

“I am to visit someone? An old friend of mine, perhaps?” she said.

“Not exactly,” Carstairs said, hedging.

“Then what, exactly?”

“Not an old friend of yours. A gentleman of my acquaintance. You will be leaving at the end of the week.”

“Leaving?” If Marianne sounded more surprised than saddened by Carstairs’s announcement, it was due to the fact that leaving this house had been her fondest wish since the day she had entered.

“A coach will be by to collect you on Friday morning. You must be prepared to leave by then.”

“A coach? Where am I to go?” Marianne asked, making every effort to understand the frightening man who was her guardian.

“The gentleman has a private estate outside of Reading. I believe he intends for you to stay there.”

“I am to leave London?”

“It is not far,” Carstairs told her. “And you will doubtless be returning in a few weeks.”

Horace Carstairs was embarrassed to admit that until tonight he had never seen the possibilities Marianne presented. She was a fresh young girl, as far as he knew, a virgin. When Desmond was finished with her, Carstairs could sell her services again.

Surprisingly, especially if one knew Carstairs and the depths to which he was willing to descend in the name of business, that had not been his intention when he offered Marianne to the gentleman. He had honestly expected to win when he wrote his little IOU. He’d had three jacks and two twos. A full house would have won any of the other hands all night long. But it did not win that hand, and consequently Carstairs had finally realized the practical value Marianne represented.

“You need not worry about me,” Marianne said, in response to his promise she would soon be returning to him. “I will stay away as long as you like.”

“We shall see how things turn out,” Carstairs said.

“And who is this person I am to visit?” Marianne asked, at last coming to the question of most pressing interest.

But her guardian shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “You do not know him,” he said.

“A philanthropic gentleman.” It was not a question. To Marianne it was an obvious statement of fact that any man who would take her away from Uncle Horace was a philanthropist.

But the next morning, when Marianne arose, she learned that Mr. Carstairs had left very early for Barnet, to collect on a loan.

She was confused and alarmed. Uncle Horace had left without telling her anything about her new placement or the situation facing her. When Bette first informed her of Mr. Carstairs’s unannounced business trip, the girl was not at all certain she had not dreamed the episode of the night before. It had gotten late, and perhaps she had fallen asleep. In her uncomfortable position at the foot of her bed she must have had a particularly vivid dream.

A letter arrived with the four o’clock post, though, which confirmed her flickering memory.

Miss Trenton,

Your guardian has by now, I am sure, informed you of your approaching relocation. I am looking forward to meeting you. My man will be there at seven o’clock Friday morning. The drive to Kingsbrook will take the better part of the day, so you will have to make an early start. Until then, je suis le tiens, ma biche.

P. Desmond.

Marianne, having quit her schooling after only a few French lessons, did not know Mr. Desmond had called her “his fawn,” nor did she realize how indecently familiar the gentleman had been in his concluding sentence.

She rose with the sun on Friday morning and was dressed to greet Mr. Desmond’s coachman when he rang the bell, a little before seven o’clock.

As Mr. Desmond had said in his letter, the trip to his home and lands outside of Reading took all of that morning and most of the afternoon. The day was unseasonably hot for so early in the summer. By eight o’clock Marianne regretted that she had chosen her three-piece ensemble, which required the jacket to look complete.

They stopped at a little roadside tavern for lunch. As always, Marianne’s finances were meager, and she was not sure she could afford to buy even the plainest meal on the menu. She was relieved, touched even, when the coachman produced two pound notes and told her Mr. Desmond had sent them, for any expenses she might incur along the way.

She therefore enjoyed her meal immensely, even drinking a glass of wine, and as a result was able to sleep very comfortably in the jogging, sweltering coach for the remainder of the journey.

She woke with a jerk when the coachman, who had identified himself as Rickers, opened the carriage door.

“Just ‘Rickers’?” Marianne had asked him doubtfully.

“Rickers usually suffices, miss, unless the missus gets impatient with me, as she does every now and again, and then it’s ‘Eus-tice!”’

“We’re there, miss,” he said now.

“There?” Marianne felt as if her wits had been scrambled by an eggbeater, which was a fair description of the coach ride and its effects.

“Kingsbrook.” With a flourish Rickers opened both doors of the coach, and Marianne caught her breath.

They had just crossed a wooden bridge over the brook after which the estate was no doubt called. Its banks were covered with moss and pretty pink centaury blossoms. The untamed beauty of the landscape continued into the park itself, which Marianne knew must be planted and cared for to some degree because of the buddleia and poppies, the dahlias and azaleas growing in such colorful beds among the shrubs and trees.

To complete the picture, a delicate doe tiptoed down to the brook, mindful but not fearful of their presence.

And then Marianne raised her eyes to the house and drew in her breath again. Kingsbrook Manor, rising from the ferns and meadows surrounding it, looked like a fairy-tale castle to the young girl. Then her breathing evened out, her wine-induced sleepiness lifted completely from her brain, leaving behind the dull throb of a headache, and she saw that of course the structure was not quite as awe-inspiring as she had first thought.

There were three stories, with tall windows all along the bottom floor, to the right and left of the big double doors set squarely in the middle. The upstairs windows were smaller, and the panes under the gables mere pigeonholes.

Rickers helped her down from the carriage, and as he accompanied her to the house, she realized some of the impression of overwhelming magnitude was due to the structure rising starkly from its wild setting. If it had been surrounded by a paved courtyard, with a wide, winding drive in front of it, it would not have startled the senses so, nor seemed so colossal.

Still, it was the largest private dwelling she had ever stayed in, and she had to force herself to keep her mouth from dropping open as she looked up at it.

At first Rickers seemed to be leading her aimlessly through the tall grass, but in a moment she realized there were flat, even stones under her feet. The path, like the beds of multicolored poppies, had been carefully and meticulously planned to convey the impression of artless natural beauty.

When they had nearly reached the doors, the path finally widened and the grass was cut back. Mr. Desmond had evidently made a minor concession to visitors and guests who might prefer civilization. There was a paved walkway around the house, and the flowers blooming near the windows were confined in planter boxes. But one had to be very near the structure before the illusion of a fairy castle in an enchanted glen was disturbed.

Rickers stopped before the large double doors.

“Mrs. River will get you situated,” the man said.

“Mrs. River?”

“Housekeeper here at Kingsbrook.”

“And where is Mr. Desmond?” Marianne asked. She was anxious to meet the gentleman, to thank him for his generosity.

“Oh, ‘e’s ‘ere about someplace, I would wager. Let Mrs. River show you around a bit and you’ll ‘ear about it when ‘imself gets in.” Rickers put her belongings down and touched his cap.

“Miss Trenton?” Startled, Marianne turned to face the speaker, a tall, angular woman, who had opened the door. With her hair turning gray at the temples and pulled back into a knot, she was not beautiful, but her face was interesting. Her eyes saw a great deal, Marianne suspected. Her ears heard more than what was said and her mouth spoke the truth. The girl instinctively liked Mrs. River the moment she saw her.

“Miss Trenton, I believe. We have been awaiting your arrival. Will you come in?” Judging from her icy tone, the housekeeper did not reciprocate with her own favorable impression.

“Yes. Thank you,” Marianne mumbled, reaching down for one of her bags.

“Leave them. James will take them up for you.”

Mrs. River turned sideways to allow Marianne to pass, and the girl stepped across the threshold into the dark receiving hall. “Mr. Desmond is…?”

“Mr. Desmond was attending to business this morning. He left instructions to serve tea when you arrived, and said that he would try to be back in time to join you. Tea is ready, Miss Trenton, but perhaps you would like a chance to freshen up first?”

Mrs. River had modified her unfriendly tones so that her voice was now perfectly expressionless. But if her eyes saw a great deal, they revealed certain things, too. Marianne felt a sinking sensation in her stomach at the housekeeper’s unmistakable disapproval of her.

She smiled sweetly, though, at the woman’s offer to freshen herself, and hoped it would mean a cool, damp washcloth—her head still ached a bit from her luncheon wine—and a brush. “I would like very much to wash my face and hands, if I could.”

“Certainly, Miss Trenton. Alice, show Miss Trenton to her rooms and then bring her down to the front sitting room when she is ready,” Mrs. River said, and Marianne was startled to see a maid in a dark skirt with a white cap and white apron suddenly materialize at her elbow.

“Yes, Mrs. River. Will you follow me, miss?” the maid inquired.

Alice led her through the receiving hall, up the stairs and along the balcony. “This is Mr. Desmond’s suite,” she said, clearing her throat. “And these—” she indicated the next door along, facing, like Mr. Desmond’s rooms, the front doors on the ground floor “—are your rooms.”

Rooms?

Indeed, the apartment Alice showed her was almost as large as the little cottage where she had grown up, in which she and her parents had lived comfortably.

“Is this all to be mine?” she gasped. “Am I to be in here—alone, I mean?”

“Well, yes, miss. That is, unless you bring…I mean, until such time as you should care to invite—anyone else in. I did not mean to suggest…” The little maid, barely older than Marianne, stammered uncomfortably, colored brilliantly and finally stopped talking altogether.

Marianne was too overcome by the proportions of her chambers to pay much attention the girl’s confusion. “I was not expecting anything so…grand,” she said softly, looking around her and finally turning wonder-filled eyes on the maid again.

Alice bobbed a curtsy and left her alone, unable to keep from shaking her head slightly as she closed the door. This young woman was not the sort of person she had been expecting, judging from the low-toned conversations between Mrs. River and Mrs. Rawlins she had overheard downstairs in the kitchen.

In her grand apartment, Marianne washed her face in a porcelain bowl, dried her hands on one of the fluffy towels set out in the private washroom, then rearranged her hair with the tortoiseshell brush, part of an elegant set placed in front of the large looking glass. She smiled into the mirror, then drew her face into more serious lines, trying to assume the proper expression of a deserving waif. Before she had the chance to practice her presentation any further, there was a nervous tapping at her door.

“Come in,” she called.

Alice slipped into the room. “He’s come, miss. Mrs. River sent me straight up to bring you. Mr. Desmond doesn’t like to be kept waiting, and in any case, Mrs. River said you would want to see him.”

“Mr. Desmond? By all means,” Marianne said, putting the brush down, smoothing her dress, checking her reflection one last time. At last she was going to meet the kindly old gentleman and have the chance to offer her heartfelt appreciation for his selfless benevolence.

Chapter Two

He was standing in front of one of the tall windows, looking out at the beautiful wild grounds, holding a teacup and saucer in his hand. The juxtaposition of savagery and civilization was curiously duplicated by the gentleman himself.

Mr. Peter Desmond was dressed in an elegant suit of clothing, of meticulous fit and the finest materials. The pants and jacket were so dark a blue as to be almost black, and the crisp white cravat and shirt were as representative of polite society as the delicate bone-china teacup he held.

But when he turned and looked at Marianne, his face and expression were as untamed and breathtaking as the scene outside the window.

He studied her for a moment without speaking. She was standing in a wash of variegated light, where the sun shone through a loosely woven lace curtain. Her traveling suit was of a light tan shade, to camouflage any dust clinging to the skirt or jacket, and with her dark golden hair and wide green eyes, she reminded him of a jungle cat. A young lioness, carefully stepping from the underbrush to suspiciously survey the landscape before her. The scene through the window behind her completed the image, with its suggestion of a tropical forest.

Her bosom rose and fell quickly and she watched him closely, a nervous creature ready to either attack or flee, depending on his next actions. The idea made him smile ever so slightly.

Marianne did not need the position of light and shadow to enhance the impression she got from the man, of a wild beast about to pounce. This was not the kindly older gentleman she had pictured to herself, with snowy white hair and palsied hand waiting to greet her. He was tanned and dark, as muscularly broad as Uncle Horace was narrow. His dark hair was too long, and his eyes, roving deliberately over her person, were a great deal too bold. His nose was straight and would have been prominent on his face if his brows had not been so black or his jawline not so pronounced.

When he turned to her, his black brows were drawn together in a thoughtful frown, almost a glower. In a moment, his fierce expression relaxed ever so slightly, but she did not feel any easier. She felt defenseless and somehow exposed as she stood before him, and the word that came to mind to best describe him was predator.

“Miss Trenton, how good of you to join me.” His voice was soft and low.

“Mr. D-Desmond,” she stammered. After a slight pause she remembered to execute an awkward little curtsy.

His smile deepened. The girl was perfect, just as Carstairs had described her. It was not Desmond’s habit, certainly, to gamble for young women, but doubtless among his varied business ventures Carstairs occasionally made certain “arrangements” between gentlemen visiting in the city and women of…free spirit. Desmond was amused that Carstairs had referred to her as his “ward.”

The proposition had intrigued him.

He had kept himself aloof from his neighbors since taking possession of Kingsbrook and so did not have any friends among the families living near him. When he was here on his estate he found himself virtually isolated from the surrounding community.

He did not regret the fact. He valued his privacy and saw enough of society in London and abroad to sate him. But the house did, on occasion, seem awfully silent, and it had occurred to him that having a woman in his home, in his bed, now and then, would compensate for any lack of ties to the local gentry.

Of course, bringing a mistress to stay with him in Kingsbrook would effectively bar him from any future ties with the local gentry, so just in case he ever wanted to court local favor, he could, as Mr. Carstairs had, present her as his ward. And she looked the part. From the outfit she wore, the style of her hair, even the youthful timbre of her voice, she almost seemed to be a schoolgirl.

“Come in, Miss Trenton. Sit down. Jenny has prepared an excellent tea for us. Let us not allow it to grow cold.” He motioned toward the short divan, and Marianne quickly sat, thankful for the offer to relieve the weight from the uncertain support of her knees.

Unexpectedly, Mr. Desmond joined her, in effect sitting down by her side.

“Tea?”

She nodded.

“Sugar? Milk? I do not see any lemon here. Shall I ring for Mrs. River?”

“Oh, no,” Marianne gasped. “Sugar and milk are fine. I like sugar and milk. I never put lemon in my tea. Well, sometimes I do, but I do not like it as well as sugar. And milk.”

“Sugar and milk it is then,” Desmond said, taking up a lump of sugar with silver tongs and pouring a measure of milk into the cup before passing it to her.

The cup rattled treacherously and Marianne set it down.

“And tell me, Miss Trenton…won’t you have a sandwich? Cress, I believe…how do you like Kingsbrook? Somewhat different from Londontown, is it not?”

Marianne, having taken one of the proffered sandwiches and bitten into it, could only nod.

“But then, that has been my goal. To make this place as unlike any town as possible.”

He smiled at her over his cup, and Marianne swallowed the bite of sandwich, which then became a heavy, solid lump in her throat. She swallowed again. “It appears you have succeeded,” she offered breathlessly at last.

“I hope you will not miss the bustle and noise of London,” Mr. Desmond said, his tone of perfect politeness not calming her nerves at all. “I find Kingsbrook very peaceful, though I suppose some could find the quiet oppressive.”

“Oh, not me, sir. I love the quiet, but then, Mr. Carstairs’s house was not frequented so often that it ‘bustled,’ anyway.”

Marianne gave a wavery smile, but Desmond had looked away. He did not want to hear about Carstairs nor the business that went on in his “house.”

“I see,” he said, choosing one of the tittle cakes from the tray Mrs. River had provided. He held the tray out to Marianne, but she shook her head. The idea of the colored icing mixing with the chewed watercress in her throat nearly made her gag.

“I hope by that you mean you will not find your change of abode too jarring,” Desmond continued, putting the tray down again.

“Not at all,” Marianne said, then, taking a breath, added, “in fact, I have been waiting the opportunity to thank you, Mr. Desmond, for your kindness in bringing me here. Kingsbrook is a lovely place and I shall endeavor to meet your expectations.”

“I am sure you will,” the gentleman said, smiling into her eyes and then allowing his gaze to slip down even farther.

“And you must tell me if there is anything I can do for you,” she offered.

“Oh, you may rely upon that,” he said, with a smile that did not brighten his dark eyes.

Another moment of silence ensued, during which he studied her and she studied her teacup.

“It was a long ride,” she mumbled at last, the only thing she could think of to say. “And warm. Very warm. Rickers warned me it would be warm today when he came this morning. And it was. And still is. Very warm. One does not notice it as much in the shade outside there, and, of course, inside here it is perfectly cool. But the ride itself was warm. And long.”

The dampness at her hairline would have seemed to refute her claim that the house was cool, but it, like her babbling, was a sign of her nervousness.

“Yes, I suppose the ride was exhausting,” the gentleman murmured, directly into her ear, so that his breath tickled the fine hairs at the base of her hairline. “You would probably like to rest and unpack before we get any better acquainted.”

“Yes. I…that would be lovely,” Marianne whispered. But she could still feel his breath on her neck and was not completely clear on what it was that would be lovely.

The gentleman smiled slowly. “Very well,” he said. He stood and offered his hand to assist her to her feet, a gesture that was not entirely superfluous, given her nervous state. “Rest yourself, Miss Trenton, and I will meet you at the supper table tonight.”

He reached behind her, and for one giddy moment Marianne thought he was going to embrace her. Instead, he pulled a cord hanging against the wall, hidden behind the draperies.

Mrs. River answered the summons promptly. “Mr. Desmond? You wished something?” she asked. She had stopped short the moment she entered the room and discovered the gentleman and the young woman in such close proximity, and her voice was decidedly chill.

“Miss Trenton is feeling exhausted after her trip from London. Take her upstairs and have Tilly or Alice draw a bath.”

“Certainly, sir. This way, Miss Trenton.”

Marianne left with Mrs. River, not sure if she would rather be in the company of the unfriendly housekeeper or stay with the unnerving Mr. Desmond. Either way, she suspected that by leaving Uncle Horace’s she had jumped from the frying pan directly into a roaring bonfire.

Following Mrs. River’s brisk orders, Tilly drew a bath, while Alice helped Miss Trenton unpack.

Tilly, the older maid, was a taciturn woman with lined face and dumpy figure. She did not even acknowledge Marianne’s presence. Alice offered her a shy smile when Mrs. River summoned her, but after a look at the housekeeper and her dour expression, the little maid withheld any other friendly overtures. With eyes downcast, she silently took the articles Marianne extracted from her bags.

Marianne regretted the coolness she sensed from the staff. But her rooms were very grand and the bath positively decadent in its luxuriance, and she tried to let her troubled thoughts float away with the fragrant steam. She followed the bath with a much-needed nap.

When Alice knocked on her door to announce dinner at half past eight, Marianne was already carefully dressed and prepared, if she ever would be, to dine with the master of the house.

Alice went ahead of her into the dining room, but passed through the door beyond, which led to the kitchen. Marianne found herself alone.

The long table was covered with white linen and set for two with china, crystal and silver, all shined so flawlessly that she could see the reflected image of her forest green gown as she paced, waiting for the disconcerting gentleman. The dining room was at the back of the house, and lined with long windows just as in the front. Darkness had fallen, and she could also glimpse her reflection in gaps between the imperfectly drawn drapes.

She was wearing one of the few dresses that she had brought from her home when she came to stay with Uncle Horace. As she touched the folds of the skirt, she remembered her mother saying it was too old for her, but that she would grow into it someday. And probably she would, though she had not yet. The sleeves were off her shoulders, the bodice was tight and the neckline dipped provocatively. It was a gown made for a mature figure, though with the aid of pins and tucks, and in the dim light, Marianne’s scant form appeared to fill it adequately.

Finally, after desperate thoughts began to present themselves about being left in here alone all night, or worse, being required to eat by herself at the forbidding table, the double doors to the dining room were thrown open and there stood Mr. Desmond.

“I thought you had forgotten me,” she exclaimed nervously. She had not meant to voice her thoughts, but somehow the words escaped her.

“Miss Trenton. Not at all. The afternoon got away from me, though. I did not even take time to dress for dinner.” He stopped to consider the picture the girl presented in her dark dress in the midst of the room filled with light and sparkle. The green gown called to mind his initial impression of the cat and the jungle. “I see now I should have.”

“Oh, no. You look wonderful.” A dull flush mounted the girl’s cheeks.

“Well, let us continue our admiration of each other over a bowl of soup. I assume you are hungry? I am starved, and I had more to eat at tea than half a cress sandwich.” Mr. Desmond stepped to the table and rang the little silver bell near one of the plates. Evidently his plate.

Mrs. River answered the summons. Marianne had the distinct impression Mr. Desmond’s house and life flowed along so elegantly and effortlessly because of the housekeeper’s careful attention.

“We are hungry, Mrs. River. Convey my apologies to Mrs. Rawlins for being late and see that supper is served immediately, if you will.”

Mrs. River murmured her acknowledgment and left.

Desmond held out a chair, and Marianne sat. A bowl of clear broth with a hint of onions appeared in front of her. She supposed she ate it, because after a while the dish was cleared away, replaced by a plate holding a lean slice of beef and a selection of hot vegetables. She saw Mr. Desmond eating, and she made a conscious effort to choose the same fork he picked up for whatever course was in front of them. But she honestly did not remember eating.

She did not recall anything about that meal except Mr. Desmond’s deepset eyes, which one discovered were dark gray if one was fortunate enough to be very close to him, and his soft, low voice, which was mesmerizing. He spoke of exotic parts of the world, places of which she had never even heard. He recited passages of literature, words full of fire and passion that brought the blood to her face.

The clock struck ten.

He told her she looked bewitching in her gown, with her hair arranged so.

The clock struck eleven.

Five minutes later it struck twelve.

“Listen to the quiet,” Desmond murmured, tilting his head as if he were hearing faint strains of stillness wafting to them on the night air. “The house is so solid it does not even creak in the night. And all the servants have gone to bed. Even Mrs. River. There have been times when I thought Mrs. River did not go to bed at all.” Desmond smiled and rose. “Let us follow their example,” he said, pulling Marianne gently to her feet.

He did not release her hand, but led her through the dim halls and up the darkened staircase. They turned on the landing and started along the balcony overlooking the front hall. Desmond stopped at one of the doors and opened it, drawing her inside. In the darkness, Marianne, being unfamiliar with the house, believed it was her room and stepped across the threshold.

Mr. Desmond followed with the candle, and by the time her senses registered the fact that it was the wrong room, he had closed the door behind them.

“This is not my room,” she told him, still believing he, like she, had made an understandable mistake.

“No, it is my room.”

At last, at long last, far past the time when such a reaction would have been understandable and advisable, Marianne felt the cold stab of panic in her heart.

“I think it will be better this way, do you not agree?” Desmond said, turning to engage the lock on the door. “By this arrangement, you may keep your rooms to yourself, where you can be alone and enjoy your privacy.”

Coolly he began to loosen the buttons of his pants. Horrified, Marianne watched him pull his trousers off completely, exposing long, dark, exceptionally hairy legs.

“Then when we are together,” he continued, speaking as casually as if they were exchanging opinions on the weather in a public salon, “we will be in here. Our rooms are even close enough that you may retire to your bed afterward, if you wish. Though I certainly hope you would choose to spend some nights with me.”

Marianne’s eyes were very large, though in the uncertain light of the single candle, Desmond may not have recognized the fear that filled them. Or perhaps he simply chose to ignore it, or to interpret it as something else. Desire, perhaps.

But it was fear in her eyes, in her mind, in her heart. She took a step away from him, but the distance she put between them was negligible, and without moving, he reached out and grasped her arm, encircling the slender limb with his long fingers. He pulled her against him and was excited to feel her heart pounding in her chest as rapidly as a sparrow’s.

“What—what are you doing?” she gasped, pulling her head back, but unable to free her arms.

He wrapped his own arms around her, holding her head with one hand as he bent toward her.

“I am taking you to paradise, my little fawn,” he murmured as he nuzzled the creamy indentation of her neck and kissed the pink lobe of her ear. “And I absolutely guarantee you will enjoy it more than anything old Carstairs has given you before.”

Suddenly his lips were on hers. For a moment, for a split second, Marianne was lost in the sensual pleasure of their warmth, their moistness, electrified by the feel of his tongue against her lips. His hand at her back, caressing the exposed skin of her shoulder blades, pressed her to him. She was aware of the tense strength of his thigh muscles as he worked his knee between her legs.

But as her legs were forced apart, as he drew his other hand up to the bodice of her dress, her head cleared with the realization of what he was doing, what he was going to do to her. She pulled away, trying to get her arms between them, turning her face away from his kisses.

“No, no!” she gasped.

He stopped his efforts for a moment and looked into her eyes with a puzzled expression.

“Your resistance is not very flattering, my dear. I would not have imagined this was the best way to get ahead in your profession.”

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered, unable to catch a full breath of air because of his tight embrace.

“I mean, you owe me this. I intend to collect on Carstairs’s wager.”

“Mr. Carstairs’s wager? What wager?”

“The wager he lost and I won. You, Miss Trenton.”

“Me? But I am Mr. Carstairs’s ward,” she gasped.

He smiled. Of course. Rather than being unskilled in her field, the girl was, quite to the contrary, very good. She was acting out her role of “ward.” Delightful.

With no further ado, Desmond picked her up in his arms and carried her to the big, dark, four-poster bed in the middle of the room.

“No…no, you mustn’t!” she cried. “Oh, please, no.”

But Desmond, believing it was all part of her “ward-andguardian” game, ignored her pleas as he pinned her arms with his left hand and with his right loosened the bodice of her dress. The buttons were frustratingly small and he was tempted to rip the material, but he focused his concentration on the little bits of obsidian and at last unhooked them all, without puiling any of them loose.

The dress fell open and he quickly pushed her confining undergarments out of the way.

As he freed her firm, young breasts, he released her arms, meaning to cup the tender morsels to his mouth. But the girl beneath him swung her freed hand, delivering a resounding slap to the side of his face.

Intoxicated by passion, Desmond only flinched in surprise and then chuckled. It was a dark sound, a sound without mercy, and Marianne’s heart clenched tightly.

“You are a little spitfire, are you not?” he said with a laugh.

He captured her hands again and started to pull at the material of her skirts and petticoats. He had expected cooperation, but the girl was very good, determined to make it exciting for him.

Her gown was like a maze. He would work his hand under one length of material only to find another blocking his path. But at last his fingers touched the smooth skin of her thigh, warm and yielding. He rubbed the inside of her leg delicately, trailing his palm over the silky skin, pushing aside confining undergarments here, as well. He nuzzled her exposed bosom, taking the tender mounds into his mouth.

By now he had raised all her skirts and petticoats out of the way. He was excited to feel the smooth, cool length of her bare legs against his own. He pushed his thigh between hers and began to rock gently.

At any moment she would begin to relax and respond. She would move beneath him, shifting to accommodate him. They would push against each other, the heat building between them, until they melted into one another.

With his lips against her ivory skin, he moaned softly, lost in the smell and feel of her. He expected to hear a soft murmur from her in response.

But she did not give voice to her passion. The form beneath him did not relax, did not move to accommodate him. She remained cold and stiff. She might have been petrified. And then he noticed a hitch in the rise and fall of her chest against his mouth.

He freed his hand from the intricacies of her undergarments and raised himself to look into her face.

Tears were streaming from under her clenched eyelids, wetting the hair at her temples and the pillow under her head. Her lips moved, and in the sudden stillness in the room he heard her murmur, “Please, no. Oh, dear Lord, please do not let him do this to me. Please, no.”

He released her hands and rolled off of her, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He glanced behind him and pushed his fingers through the wild tangle of his hair.

What did she mean by this? What was happening? This was not what Carstairs had promised him.

Desmond took a breath and told himself to think. His breathing became deeper and slower, as the fire in his loins cooled. What exactly had Carstairs promised him? The man had offered him his “ward.” His ward? Was it possible…?

“Marianne?” he said at last, very softly.

The girl did not open her eyes, but her lips stopped moving.

“How old are you, Marianne?” he asked.

There was a long pause, during which the girl hiccupped and Desmond gently smoothed away the tears on one of her cheeks with his thumb.

“Sixteen,” she whispered.

Sixteen? Was she as young as that? He studied her unlined face.

There was no question. He had been a blind fool.

“And you…you have nevei done this before, have you?”

She shook her head.

Desmond withdrew his hand from her face, almost expecting to see her cheek stained by his touch. He was suddenly filled with a great revulsion. A revulsion for Carstairs, who had delivered the young woman to him, fully aware of her probable fate. The wager had been offered and accepted with a mutual understanding as to what they were playing for.

But he also felt revulsion for himself. Carstairs was a pig, but what was he?

It was very silent for two or three minutes. The girl’s tears had ceased, though her sobs occasionally shook the mattress.

Desmond appeared to be completely lost in thought, totally unaware of the girl, but in fact he was consumed by thoughts of her, considering what her life must have been like, wondering what had brought her to this place tonight and where the path on which Carstairs had planted her would eventually lead her. If this was her first time, Carstairs must not have tried this ploy before. But since his wager had been accepted once, it would be again. Probably often. Until she was no longer worth the bet. Even though Desmond would not touch the girl again, if he sent her back he would be delivering her straight into a life of prostitution, into the the jaws of hell. He would be no better than Carstairs.

He grimaced. He was no better than Carstairs now, for he had brought her here expecting to collect his “winnings.”

“Mr. Desmond?” the girl whispered.

Desmond started in surprise and turned to look at her.

Her eyes were open, red rimmed and swollen, focused on him with an expression Desmond would have thought only executioners saw in the eyes of the condemned.

“Are you finished?” she asked.

“What?”

“Is it over? Can I go back to my room?”

“Yes. Go. Go,” he said hoarsely, turning his face so he would not have to watch her struggle from the bed.

She rolled to her side and swung her legs toward the edge. She had to work her way across the wide mattress before she could reach the floor, but at last she stood. Aware of the man on the bed behind her but not daring to look in his direction, she pushed her skirts down self-consciously and fumbled to refasten the bodice of her dress.

With slumped shoulders and heavy tread, she walked to the door and struggled to release the lock. He could not help raising his eyes to watch her when a relieved sigh signaled that she had finally succeeded. He saw her pull open the door of his room. Before stepping out into the hallway, she pushed the hair back from her face, squared her shoulders and raised her chin.

He was touched by her bravery and determination. But before his door shut her completely from view, he saw the line of her shoulders slump again as if with a terrible weight.

Desmond felt crushed with remorse. There was no question about the physical damage he had almost done to her, but what spiritual blow had he actually delivered?

He could not keep her here at Kingsbrook, subjecting himself to the accusations of her presence. But neither could he send her back to her former home.

He had played for a ward and he had won a ward, but now that he had her, what was he to do with her?

Chapter Three

To Marianne, her short lifetime seemed to be a succession of frightful nights. Endless nights spent waiting for Uncle Horace to return to the town house, fearfully wondering what abuse and indignity she would be required to endure this time. That ghastly night she had spent at her mother’s bedside, watching her become weaker and weaker, unable to do anything to overturn the awful verdict, to bar entrance to the merciless reaper.

But not even the memory of that night seemed as horrible as this night in Kingsbrook.

Marianne undressed slowly, careful to keep her eyes turned from the mirror, fearful of the physical evidence she would see of what had happened.

She pulled the green gown off her shoulders and dropped it to the floor at her feet. It lay in a crumpled heap, and automatically she picked it up and hung it in her closet, though she knew she could never bear to wear it again.

She removed her underthings, then poured some of the lukewarm water from her pitcher into the basin. She washed slowly, carefully, but not with any obsessive effort to cleanse herself. A tear rolled down her cheek as she told herself that was impossible now.

Her muscles were sore, owing to her struggle with the larger, stronger man. Her head ached and her breasts were tender. She did not feel a deeper, more intimate pain, but she was too distracted and too ignorant to wonder at that. Besides, more painful to her than any physical injury was her burning shame.

She pulled a long flannel nightgown from the drawer where Alice had put it earlier that afternoon. She slipped it over her head and then crawled between the sheets of her bed. She pulled the blankets up around her neck as if chilled by the cold of winter, though it was so far an unseasonably warm summer. The cold she felt was deeper and darker than any she had known before.

Marianne did not want to think about what had happened, but self-accusations swirled around in her head like feathers caught in a hurricane. What had she done to provoke such an assault? Nothing consciously or intentionally, that she could recall, but she had been so fascinated by him. She had been flattered by his attention, eager for his approval. Her admiring gaze had no doubt seemed provocative. She had probably leaned too far toward him as he spoke to her, or perhaps her eyes or the movement of her lips or hands could have been interpreted as an invitation.

She moaned softly and turned onto her side.

Her anguish was compounded because she was so lonely. There was no one here, no one in her life to whom she could turn for help and comfort. No one to advise her or give her any explanations. Marianne had to reach her own conclusions about everything, and she was a very young girl with a very limited field of reference.

All night long she tossed and turned, her brief snatches of sleep filled with dreams of strange longings, from which she awoke drenched in sweat and even further shamed.

But at long last the sun rose and began to climb higher in the sky. Wide-awake and uncomfortably warm, Marianne still lay abed, the blankets clutched to her chin.

When she had crawled into this bed last night, she had wished with all the strength of her being that she could die. But she had not died, and as she turned fretfully, restlessly, she realized she did not really want to spend the rest of her life in this bed.

True, when she rose she would have to leave this room again. She would have to walk down the stairs, speak to Alice and Mrs. River. He would be there.

The thought made her stomach churn, and she tried to imagine what she would say or do the next time she saw him.

She could not escape him, though, lying in this bed. If he was there, he was there. In fact, if he so desired, he could force open her door and drag her out, just as her uncle Horace had. She could do nothing to prevent that, as she had been unable to fight Desmond off last night. Somehow she would have to deal with the terrible uncertainties in her life and get on with it.

Her lips firmed as they had last night just before she left his room. She pushed the blankets back and swung her legs from the bed.

“Mrs. River!”

“Miss Trenton?”

They had surprised each other in the dining room. Marianne was relieved to find the room deserted when she arrived there and was doing her best not to alert anyone in the house as to her presence. She was gratified to find a few breakfast things still on the sideboard. The congealed eggs and cold oatmeal did not tempt her, but she found a few fresh strawberries and two muffins, which she was hungrily munching when Mrs. River entered the room through the kitchen door.

The housekeeper took a moment to collect herself. She was very confused by the situation here at Kingsbrook. She had known the young master and his family too long for her to be taken in by Mr. Desmond’s very thin story of bringing his “ward” to stay at Kingsbrook for a while. In the rooms directly adjacent to his own.

In fact, she had known Mr. Desmond since he was “Mister Peter” and came to visit his grandfather occasionally. He had been a pleasant enough child, but it was her understanding that he had acquired certain unfortunate habits while away at school. It was known in the servants’ quarters—and what was known in the servants’ quarters was invariably true, though no one could say precisely from whence the knowledge had come—that the boy was a great disappointment to his parents and had been virtually abandoned by them as a hopeless cause.

But Mrs. River knew her place, and Mr. Desmond was welcome to indulge himself and his base appetites without asking leave of his housekeeper or even hearing her opinion on the subject. Mrs. River firmly believed that she could distance herself enough from the gentleman’s private life that his crotchets need not come to her attention at all, as long as he kept such goings-on in London or across the Channel. But to bring a loose woman into this fine old house, to bed and board her behind these walls, deeply offended the Kingsbrook housekeeper.

Then Alice had reported this morning, in breathless undertones, that Mr. Desmond had slept alone in his bed, as had Miss Trenton in hers. Alice had added that Miss Trenton really did seem a perfect lady, whatever her profession might be, if Mrs. Rawlins and Tilly caught her meaning.

Mrs. River was disapproving of such tittle-tattle, naturally, and dismissed Alice’s opinion as the silly romanticism of a child. Now, though, as she stood facing the young woman in question, she could not help but admit that the adventuress of last night and this sweet young thing with crumbs on her fingers and a tiny smear of strawberry on her chin might not have been the same person.

This morning Miss Trenton was dressed in a light smock with a homey pinafore over it. Her hair was mussed and her eyes looked tired and red. Mrs. River felt her moral outrage being replaced by motherly compassion. Had she been wrong?

It was a new idea for Mrs. River.

She had been the unquestioned authority on every subject here in Kingsbrook for so long that she had almost forgotten the concept of “being wrong.”

“Excuse me. I found these things still out. I know it is terribly late and I certainly was not expecting breakfast, but I thought, since they were here…Oh, I—I hope they were not being reserved for someone!” Marianne stammered, as guiltily as if Mrs. River had surprised her stashing the house silverware in her undergarments.

“It is quite all right, Miss Trenton. You are welcome to anything on the sideboard, or Jenny will prepare something fresh for you if you would like.”

“Oh, no,” Marianne gasped, apparently appalled by the suggestion that something be prepared especially for her. “This is fine. The strawberries are very good, and if I can just take this second muffin up to my room, I will get out of your way.”

The girl fumbled with the muffin, attempting to wrap it in a napkin, reducing it to little more than a mass of crumbs.

“Here now,” Mrs. River said. Marianne looked up in astonishment, for the woman’s voice sounded kind and helpful.

Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. She understood the housekeeper’s coolness of yesterday, knowing now the reason Mr. Desmond had brought her here. They all thought she was a tart. And perhaps she was, she thought miserably.

She had been unhappy staying with Uncle Horace, always lonely, sometimes even mistreated, but she had never been as frightened and confused as she was here now. Never since her mother’s death had she needed a comforting arm more.

“Oh, my dear,” Mrs. River cooed, the last barrier of disapproval melted by the tears in the girl’s eyes. The housekeeper stepped forward and put her arm around Marianne’s shoulders, and the young woman collapsed against her bosom.

Dismissing Marianne’s mature gown of last night, the impression she had given of flirting with Mr. Desmond, Mrs. River concluded she had made a deplorable mistake, that the young woman was here as the ward of her master, doubtless suffering from the recent loss of one or both of her parents. The tears were easily explained, and Mrs. River had only to gently pat the girl’s back as she wept. “Hush, now,” she said softly after several minutes.

Marianne, who had imagined her grief to be depthless, was surprised to find herself running out of tears. She sniffled, and Mrs. River withdrew her handkerchief from her waist and offered it to her. Like a dutiful child, Marianne blew into it heartily and felt herself even further recovered.

“Better?” Mrs. River asked.

Marianne nodded, hiccupping pitifully. “A little,” she said. “I am sorry….”

“Tut tut, child. I understand completely.”

Marianne looked into the woman’s face and was relieved to see she did not understand at all. Whatever trouble Mrs. River was imagining, it was not Marianne’s seduction and fall from innocence.

“Now you go on up to your room and wash your face and brush your hair. It is almost noon, and by the time you come down again Jenny will have a nice bowl of soup ready for you.”

The soup was delicious. Eaten in the privacy of a little nook in the kitchen, it was the most delicious meal Marianne could remember having in this place. Mrs. River was in and out of the kitchen several times, seeing to household affairs, entering again just in time to see Marianne mop up the last drop with her slice of bread.

“There now,” the housekeeper said, wiping her hands on her apron as if she had finished some taxing chore. “Mr. Desmond—”

Marianne jerked her head up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she looked around wildly. “Where? Where is Mr. Desmond?” she cried.

“Not here. Not here,” Mrs. River said soothingly. Goodness, the girl was as skittish as a thoroughbred colt. “I was only going to say Mr. Desmond left early this morning. He said he would be away for a few days and that you are to enjoy free access to the house and the park while he is away, so I merely wondered what you would like to do now?” The housekeeper smiled, and Marianne smiled back, though hers was a little weak and trembling.

“I do not know,” she said, genuinely at a loss.

“Well, you cannot stay tucked away in your room until the master returns,” Mrs. River chided.

But Mrs. River’s suggestion sounded very attractive to Marianne. She hurried back to her room and spent most of the day there, and the first half of the next. But by then she was growing bored and restless, indeed, and had quite caught up on her sleep.

“So you have come down at last?” Mrs. River said in greeting the next afternoon.

Marianne flushed slightly. “What are you going to do today, Mrs. River?” she inquired timidly.

“Why, I am going to shell peas for Mrs. Rawlins and set Alice to polishing the glassware,” the housekeeper replied.

“May I help?” Marianne offered.

So Mrs. River and she shelled peas, and then Marianne and Alice polished crystal under the housekeeper’s watchful gaze. Marianne took supper that night in the servants’ quarters and for the first time felt quite comfortable, almost jolly here at Kingsbrook.

By the next day she was ready to explore the estate. “Might I go about on the grounds?” she asked Mrs. River.

The woman smiled. “Indeed you may, child. A breath of fresh air will do you a world of good.”

Mrs. River pulled a loosely woven shawl from a hook and gently pushed Marianne toward the open doorway. She pointed out the walkway and suggested a route that would take her past the most charming sights of the Kingsbrook estate.

Marianne carefully put her foot outside the door, as if she was testing the frigid waters of some mountain spring before plunging in. She took another step. As soon as she was across the threshold, Mrs. River, with a soft chuckle, shut the door behind her.

At first Marianne wandered at random. After an excursion or two across meadows and flower beds left her with a muddied hem and a torn seam, she found that following the flagstone walkway was definitely the path of least resistance. And Mrs. River had been correct: whoever had plotted the route had done so with an eye to displaying all of the charms of the lovely estate.

The dense woods appeared to be clogged with a riot of ferns, mosses and ivy. The meadows were bejeweled with dahlias and delphiniums, and wild orchids and red campion were placed to achieve exactly the right balance and effect.

The pathway took Marianne across an arched wooden bridge over the bubbling brook. She saw another deer and wondered if the animals were treated as pets on Mr. Desmond’s lands. She did not have a lump of sugar with her, but was quite certain the delicate doe would have taken it from her hand if she had.

She was watching her footing carefully because the trailblazer, in what must have been a moment of irrepressible mischief, had laid the path stones perilously close to the bank of the stream, when she looked up and found herself standing in front of a squat stone enclosure. Walking around to inspect it, she discovered it to be open to the air, with pillars of stacked stones supporting a sloping slate roof. It was evidently a gazebo, with the same primitive quality as the landscape and as painstakingly created.

From the bright, sunlit meadow, the place appeared dark and forbidding to Marianne. She peered around anxiously, feeling unaccountably threatened by the heavy pile of stones. Taking a breath to bolster her courage, she mounted the steps. Walking between two of the pillars into the shady interior was like entering a cave. But once inside, she found it a very pleasant retreat, with a smooth stone bench to rest upon. The curious acoustics seemed to deaden the sounds of the woodland as effectively as the closing of a door.

Marianne sat down.

She looked out onto the meadow, straining to hear the rustle of the breeze stirring the grasses. Gazing between the dark stone pillars at the sun-dappled scene was like looking at another world—a brighter, more innocent world. Marianne’s eyes stung and tears began to flow down her cheeks. It was a world she could not be a part of now.

Not just because of what had happened, but because of the dark, more secret thoughts that pushed into her head: the image of him standing before her, half-clad, his bare legs pressed against her skirts; the remembered sensation of his heavy hand and strong fingers on her breasts, against the sensitive skin of her upper thigh. She wondered, though she did not like to and pushed the guilty thought away as quickly as she could, what it would have been like had Mr. Desmond gone slower, if she had been a willing partner. A great deal of whispering and sniggering went on about the subject, and Marianne wondered what on earth all the interest was about. She had experienced no great pleasure in the act. In fact, she could not remember “the act” at all. She wondered if, under the right circumstances, it could be as pleasant as people said. She tried to imagine what the right circumstances would be, and as a number of indecent scenes appeared before her mind’s eye, she attempted to push those thoughts away as well.

Without a doubt, she was irredeemably vile and sinful.

She buried her face in her hands, trying to block out the images, trying to return to the girl she had been a week ago, knowing in her heart that girl was now part of her irretrievable past.

If Peter Desmond felt guilty about nothing else, he should feel guilty for that.

She was not alerted to another presence in the peaceful little glade until she heard the scuff of a shoe on the stone steps leading into the gazebo. She jerked her head up to meet the very eyes she was trying to forget, though their depth and intensity seemed almost to have burned their impression into her living flesh.

She gasped.

Desmond winced as if she had spat in his face.

She looked like a rosebud as she drew away from him, folding tightly within herself, pink and tender, young and immature, but with great promise in her delicate petals. Desmond realized he had bruised the bud, and his cheeks grew warm with an unfamiliar shame.

It had been many years since Peter Desmond had felt shame. He would have thought his conscience had atrophied completely by now. He remembered vaguely feeling ashamed when young Ronny Withers had gotten him drunk that first time, there at Ketterling, and he had missed classes the next day and been called into the dean’s office.

“What have you to say for yourself, Master Desmond?” Dean Stampos had inquired darkly. Dean Stampos had been a big man, with heavy black brows and the voice of doom.

“I—I believe I was intoxicated, sir,” young Desmond had gulped.

“Believe?” Dean Stampos thundered.

“I was intoxicated, sir.”

“Six lashes, boy, and do not let me hear of such a thing again.”

If Dean Oliver Stampos had ended his direful sentence merely with “Six lashes,” Desmond really believed he would not have fallen from grace—at least not so quickly—nor plummeted to such depths. But the awesome symbol of authority in his young life had added those next eleven words, and do not let me hear of such a thing again, and the exceptionally bright boy had at last felt challenged by his schooling.

It became a contest of wit and ingenuity to find out how much he could get away with, how many rules he could break, in what misconduct he could indulge without Dean Stampos hearing of it. Desmond found he could quaff any strong drink his money could buy and his schoolboy stomach could hold. He found he could gamble away every cent of money his father sent him, his mother sent him, his grandfather advanced or he could beg, borrow or steal from the other boys. He believed it was Ronny Withers who also introduced him to the ladies who introduced him to pleasures of the flesh, though he was drunk at the time and did not really remember the painted jade who led him into one of the little cubicles, or what had happened there in the dark, let alone the schoolmate who had accompanied him to the den the night they sneaked away from Ketterling.

Yet in the end, Desmond was not as clever as he supposed, and when one day his father arrived at the school and Peter was called to a meeting in the dean’s office, Stampos was able to produce a file of proof of the boy’s misbehavior. Desmond was summarily dismissed.

He returned to the family home in Birmingham. His mother thought it was to her watchful care, but it was to a city that offered vice with as much increase over that available at the Ketterling school as a stream realizes when it enters a lake. Desmond eventually became a skilled gambler, but that education cost him the legacy an uncle had left him, all of the money his grandfather had meant for him to have after his death, when the boy took over Kingsbrook, and his father’s good graces.

And though in the beginning, there at Ketterling, and even when he returned home, he felt a twinge of conscience now and then, the nudges became fainter, the remorse negligible. He was not aware of feeling particularly ashamed even when, at last, his father summoned him to his office in town and told him that after the escapade of the weekend before—Desmond did not remember what had happened; he only knew his gold watch and chain were gone again and one of the carriages was wrecked beyond repair—Mr. Desmond could not allow his son to stay in the family home any longer.

Mr. Desmond did not like to suggest that the boy go to live with his wife’s father at the estate the old man was determined to leave him, and felt guilty at the relief he felt when Georgia tearfully suggested it herself. Sir Arthur Chadburn was a straitlaced old gentleman who would not countenance his grandson’s debauchery, and Peter, Mr. Desmond knew from experience, was bound and determined to be debauched. Mr. Desmond did not like to imagine the result of the stress Peter would cause the elderly gentleman.

As it turned out, though, even as father and son were having their grim confrontation, a letter was being delivered to Mrs. Desmond announcing the death of her father. So Peter assumed ownership of the Kingsbrook manor and estate outside of Reading, and his father, with a stony face but a clear conscience, sent the boy away, vowing he would never see him again.

It was unbeknownst to his father, young Desmond was sure, that his mother sent him a semiannual stipend that more or less kept him afloat. It was meant to supplement the estate upkeep, but more often than not it supplemented Desmond’s gambling expenses. Fortunately, his gaming had improved to the point where he could pay the few Kingsbrook servants with fair regularity and travel to all the great gambling Meccas here in England and on the Continent to make additional monies for himself and the estate.

It was a difficult, strenuous life he had chosen for himself. Despite his dismissal from boarding school, he was accepted into the Reading University on his scholastic merit. Though the lessons came easily, he would not focus on his education and left the university after four years with no better idea of what to do. By then he had been disowned by his family; he had lost the generous remembrances of his uncle and grandfather. His father had roared and his mother had wept, and through it all Desmond kept his jaw stubbornly squared and refused to admit to any shame.

Now, though, as he stood between the pillars of the little stone gazebo, facing the girl he had claimed as prize in his latest game of cards, his cheeks grew warm and he was forced to acknowledge his own ignominy.

He would have given anything to have relegated this meeting to someone else, but to have taken that happy option would have required a fuller disclosure than Desmond intended to ever give anyone about what had happened that night.

He cleared his throat. “Good day, Miss Trenton,” he said.

She did not answer, only continued to watch him warily.

He took another step into the gazebo, and she hitched herself farther away from him on the bench, as far as she could without falling to the stone flooring.

He sighed.

“Miss Trenton, I wish I could convince you that you do not have to fear me, but I do not suppose that is possible now. Here, I will stand with my back against this pillar. I will not take another step toward you the entire time I am here. And you, if you could, may relax your hold on the edge of the bench there so your knuckles are not quite so white.”

He nodded toward where she gripped the stone seat, apparently clinging for dear life. She released her hold and then looked up at the man standing on the other side of the little enclosure, his back dutifully flat against the supporting pillar. She folded her hands in her lap, but dismay and terror still filled her eyes with dark shadows.

Peter Desmond, though an admitted roué, having advanced from dark dens to glittering palaces of prostitution, had never taken a woman against her will or even below her top price. It was his habit, though hardly a regular one, to meet with such ladies and leave them satisfied, as well as pleased, as it were. Despite his decidedly wicked ways, he had never expected to see in a young lady’s eyes the expression he saw in Marianne’s.

He cleared his throat gruffly. “I will come directly to the point,” he said. “I have spent a number of sleepless nights contemplating your immediate future, as I am sure you have.”

The girl nodded slightly.

“If I understood you correctly that night…” the young woman’s pale cheeks suddenly blazed at the mere mention of the episode, and Desmond uncomfortably cleared his throat again “…you are not a regular girl of Mr. Carstairs’s then?”

Marianne looked at him blankly, furrowing her brow slightly in her attempt to understand his meaning.

“You do not…work for Carstairs?”

“I am the ward of Uncle Horace,” Marianne whispered.

They were the same words Carstairs had said to him, the same words he had laughed over and repeated to Abbot and Phillips, almost the exact words Mrs. River had employed to announce Miss Trenton’s arrival. Why, then, did they mean something so very different when the girl whispered them?

“Yes, of course,” Desmond murmured. “Nevertheless, I do not believe you should return to Mr. Carstairs’s establishment.”

He watched her carefully, trying to gauge her reaction to his decision. Would she quarrel with him and be difficult? Did she want to return to that pit?

She shook her head, but did not venture any comment.

Desmond nodded briskly. “Right. I should tell you then, I have been into London to consult with legal counsel, reviewing the situation in which we find ourselves.”

Marianne’s expressive face registered surprise. After what Mr. Desmond had done, how could he go to a representative of the law?

“I do not know if you are fully aware of the circumstances that brought you here, Miss Trenton, but Mr. Carstairs wagered his guardianship of you and lost. I won.” He could not keep the ironic tone from his voice. “My lawyer informs me that, though unusual, such a transfer of responsibility can be legal. There are papers and signatures involved, but Mr. Bradley assures me that dating from my meeting with Carstairs and the others at the Grand Hotel, you may be considered in my legal custody.”

“Oh.”

It was a very small sound, but Desmond hoped there was more surprise in it than fright. But there was some fright in her eyes, which cut him to the quick. Seeing her here, clothed in dress and pinafore that made her look like a child fresh from the nursery, Mr. Desmond was, as his housekeeper had been, struck by how young she appeared. If she had arrived at Kingsbrook dressed this way, or had come to supper that night in this outfit instead of that indecently provocative green gown that seemed to set her hair ablaze, Desmond would never have attempted what he had.

Now the gentleman hitched his back in discomfort against the hard rocks, but kept his shoulders squarely against the pillar. “It is my intention to enroll you in a respectable boarding school.”

He had arrived at that happy solution in the long waking hours of that night before he left for London, though he was not prepared for the amount of money such a solution would cost. Mr. Bradley, his solicitor, had informed him a “good” school would cost every bit of the money his mother sent him each year. It was lucky for Desmond that he had done the girl no physical harm, or this damned conscience of his, which had chosen a most inconvenient time to reintroduce itself, would have had him selling Kingsbrook to recompense her.

As it was, he would be required to tighten his belt and pass up his forays to Paris and Monte Carlo for the next few years. As he discussed the proposition with Bradley and contemplated the sacrifices that would be required of him, his resolve had faltered a bit. He might have been willing to seek another solution, but as the lovely young girl sat quivering on the cold stone bench before him, his chin firmed and he determined to limit his gambling trips to London and Liverpool as long as she was enrolled, if need be.

By gad, it felt good to be noble!

“I have made no inquiries yet, so if you have a preference for the part of the country in which you wish to be located, or for a school you may have heard about, I will certainly give your choice consideration.”

“I—I attended Miss Willmington’s classroom on Miller Street for a while,” she whispered.

“You have had some schooling?” Desmond asked, surprised. He had assumed the girl, though not a professional yet, was merely some street urchin Carstairs had picked up, preparing her for market.

The girl nodded.

“You can read and write, then?”

She nodded again.

“And work figures?”

Her lips turned up unconsciously, and Desmond drew in his breath at the delightfully whimsical effect the slight change in her expression produced.

“Some,” she said softly. Marianne’s introduction to, and practice with, numbers had been grueling, the difficulty compounded by any help her father tried to give.

At the thought of her father, the glimmer of a smile left her lips, and Desmond exhaled in disappointment. “Well, that will make a difference, of course,” he said. “Do you wish to return to Miss Willmington’s school?”

“I finished there,” she said softly. “It was for children.”

“I see.” He swallowed heavily. The girl before him was still barely more than a child. “Very well. We must find another place then, but now I see I do not have to look for a classroom that offers the most elementary instruction, but can place you with girls your own age.”

Marianne continued to stare at him wordlessly, with large, disconcerting eyes.

“I shall set the works in motion then,” he said. “It may take a week or two, but I will take rooms in Reading until I find a place for you. You may make yourself at home here in Kingsbrook, and Mrs. River will help you with anything you need. Do you have any questions about your schooling?”

He paused to give the girl a chance to speak, but she shook her head.

“If you think of something, you may ask Mrs. River. I will leave complete instructions with her. If I do not see you again before you leave, Miss Trenton, once more allow me to express my regrets over our little misunderstanding.”

He took a deep breath of relief. There. It was over. He had done all he could in redemption for bringing the girl here and behaving like an animal, and now, if he was lucky, he would never have to see her again and could put this episode behind him. In the future, he would be happy for the solitude of Kingsbrook, thankful for the privacy of his bed. He was even tempted to give up gambling, though he did not go so far as to make the personal pledge. His losses he could cover; it was his winnings that were so appalling.

He pushed himself away from the pillar.

Marianne had dropped her eyes, seeming to be fascinated by the fingers twisting in her lap. “Mr. Desmond, what if…” she began softly, timidly, unable to let him go without asking her most fearful question.

“Yes?” he said, encouraging her as gently as he could when it appeared she would not finish her sentence.

“What if I am pregnant?” she whispered.

Desmond’s shoulders fell back heavily against the pillar. In fact, it was fortunate the solid pile of stones was there to catch him.

“You are not pregnant, Marianne,” he said. There was a gruffness in his voice that suggested how touched he was by the child and her anguished question.

“But after that night…”

“Nothing happened that night.”

“Nothing?” She looked up at him, her beautiful eyes opened wide in doubtful wonder. “But you—you…”

“I behaved like a brute, but I assure you the act was not consummated that night. You are as pure and inviolate now as you were when you left Mr. Carstairs’s home in London. And you are safer here than you ever were there.”

The girl’s eyes filled with tears of relief. “Really?” she asked uncertainly, hopefully.

He wanted more than he had ever wanted anything in his life—more than he had wanted Galston’s Way to win the Derby that year when he might still have repaid his grandfather; more than he had wanted that ace of clubs that would have finished his straight flush and sent him home victorious at least once before his father threw him out of the house; more even than he wished, sometimes late at night as he lay in some narrow cot in a strange city, that good old Ronny Withers had sunk to the bottom of the English Channel before he ever came to Ketterling—to gather this trembling girl in his arms and smooth away the fear and distrust he had taught her. But he had promised he would stay where he was, and the finger of God could not have moved him from this place.

“Really,” he replied earnestly.

She gave a shuddering sigh and dropped her eyes again.

She was not going to have a baby.

Marianne had been terrified by the events of that night and totally confused. Her perception of the sexual act was based solely on the cheap novels she read. In them the man kissed the woman—very much as Mr. Desmond had kissed her—clothes were discarded and body parts exposed, and in the next chapter the woman was with child.

Her fear had been practically paralyzing, and now her relief made her bones feel gelatinous. But she believed Mr. Desmond. Not only because he knew more than she did about what had happened that night and how much more was actually required to produce a baby, but because of the look on his face and the timbre of his voice when he spoke.

“Good,” she whispered, but he did not answer, and when she looked up she was alone in the gazebo again.

As she stared across the empty space, out into the deep green of the bower beyond the columns of stone, her mind was cleared of the dark pall of fear that had held her in its grip. But in its place, she heard Mr. Desmond’s words again and was free to contemplate their meaning.

“I assure you the act was not consummated that evening,” he had said. Mr. Desmond, she knew, was very rich. And very wicked. He was sending her to a fine boarding school, but was he taking such action only to save her for himself another day?

It was not the first time Marianne misunderstood the gentleman’s motives, nor would it be the last.

Chapter Four

It was not a week later that Mrs. River received news and instructions from Mr. Desmond informing her, and his ward, of an upstanding women’s institute of education that he had located near Farnham. A place had already been secured for Miss Trenton.

During the interim, as he had promised, Mr. Desmond left Kingsbrook to allow Marianne privacy. Feeling curiously at home in the big house now, she spent the days flitting from room to room, most often coming to rest in the library, with its tall shelves packed with books, collected over decades.

That the library was not the compilation of one person was evidenced by the varying topics of interest represented: birds, history, tropical plants, political essays, even a few slim volumes of poetry produced by obscure poets whose names Marianne had never heard before. There were books about rocks and books about etiquette, and a rather large selection about horses and horsemanship, horse equipage and shoeing, feeding, bedding and medicine. That last, the book on horse medicine, was a very old volume that included a chapter on demonic possession and another on the use of equine leeches.

On a low shelf along the north wall of the room, easily within reach and just a little above the girl’s eye level, were books with some rather intriguing titles: Medea, Antigone, the Iliad, the Aeneid. One whose cover was nearly torn off, and which fell open easily and lay flat, suggesting it was often taken from the shelf and read, was entitled the Odyssey.

But Marianne was disappointed when she opened them to find them all, and many more besides, written in a foreign language, some even in a foreign alphabet that looked like bird scratchings and mystic symbols.

In all the immense inventory of the room, there was not one book of the sort Marianne was used to reading. No Berkshire Maiden, no Eleanor Simple, no The Life of Roman Charles and the Ladies He Encountered, subtitled A Misspent Youth. Nevertheless, she was enthralled by the new ideas suddenly available to her.

She was in the library reading, in fact, several days later, when Mrs. River brought her a letter that had just arrived in the post.

“It is from Mr. Desmond,” the housekeeper said, holding the letter and empty envelope before her. “He says he has found a school for you. He says…well here, let me read it to you. ‘The Farnham Academy is outside of the town proper. I believe Miss Trenton will enjoy the quiet, and Mrs. Avery, headmistress of the school, assures me they provide the finest education befitting a young woman of our advanced day.’ There now, does that not sound grand? He says you are to leave Kingsbrook a week from the day he wrote the letter, which would make it…let me see. Day after tomorrow.”

Marianne felt her stomach tighten, but she was not sure whether it was from anticipation or dread.

“Though he adds if that is too soon, you are to be allowed all the time you need. But I do not think that is the case. Alice can have you packed in one afternoon. Do you not agree?”

Marianne had little choice but to nod in response to Mrs. River’s brisk question.

Without any further discussion, Marianne Trenton found herself two days later once again behind Rickers, in an open coach on her way to the Farnham Academy for the Edification of Young Ladies of Quality.

She had been at Kingsbrook for just twenty-one days, but they had been the most tumultuous days of her young life. She was surprised to feel an ache of homesickness in her throat as a turn in the road concealed the manor house and parkland surrounding it. Her days at Kingsbrook had perhaps not been happy, but they had become an important part of her.

The academy was housed in an unremarkable gray stone building of three floors, with two smaller adjoining buildings. One of the outbuildings served as the kitchen, from which food never arrived hot at the long table in the dining room, though the room was on the ground floor, with a door that opened directly onto the walk leading from the cookhouse.

The other outbuilding was for physical exertion and exercise, “as necessary to the well-being of the body as nourishment.” Mrs. Avery, a spiky woman of rail-like thinness, was a great advocate of the benefits of physical exertion and exercise.

The main portion of the school, where the girls spent most of their time, was inside the big center building.

Mr. Desmond’s careful inquiries had indeed located a very creditable institute of learning for “young women of quality of that advanced day.” Occasionally, though, as Marianne attended Miss Gransby’s elocution classes, Mrs. Lynk’s deportment classes or Mr. Brannon’s ancient history classes, her attention strayed, and she wondered if a school slightly less tailored to young women of quality might not have been more interesting.

Mrs. Avery taught the Latin classes. “Not all schools for young ladies include the study of Latin,” she often reminded them. “Young women are taught to speak softly and work their needlepoint, while all the most sublime thoughts of mankind are locked away in the classic languages. Young men are taught Latin. Boys of eight years old are taught Latin. You young women are extremely fortunate to receive that same mystic key.”

Rickers delivered Marianne to the gaunt stone edifice on the afternoon of this fine day in the latter part of June.

“Miss Trenton.” It was Mrs. Avery herself who greeted the new student. “Welcome to the Farnham Academy. I hope you will be happy here.”

Marianne hoped she would, too, and murmured vague words of agreement. She was shown to her room, or rather, to the dormitory where half the girls in the school slept. The other half, the younger girls, ages eight to twelve, slept below stairs in much more cramped quarters.

Next to her bed was a stand with two drawers for her smallclothes and other personal possessions. Marianne, like everyone else, was issued a lightweight, brown woolen skirt and two muslin blouses to be worn to classes. The skirts, blouses and any dresses the girls might have brought with them from home hung in a long common closet at the end of the room.

Owing to Mrs. Avery’s emphasis on exercise, and the laundry being done only once a week, the odor that issued forth from the closet when she folded back the screen was heady, and Marianne was not at all sure she wanted to hang her things in there. But she had little choice, so she changed dutifully from the frock she had worn from Kingsbrook into the school uniform. Rejoining Mrs. Avery in the receiving hall, she was shown to her classes.

“’There is a place within the depths of Hell/ Call’d Malebolge…’“ A thin, pale girl, who looked younger than Marianne was reading aloud from a worn book she and her deskmate were sharing. The little woman at the head of the class clapped her hands sharply and the reader stopped, looking up, like the rest of the girls, to curiously study the new student disturbing their lessons.

“Girls, this is Miss Marianne Trenton. Miss Trenton, you may sit there, in the last desk. Judith, see that Miss Trenton has a copy of Mr. Aligheiri’s Divina Commedia. Nedra, you may continue. We are in Hell, Miss Trenton….”

The girls were pleasant enough, but Marianne was slow to make friends in the school. It was a week before she said a complete sentence to anyone, two before she divulged any personal information about herself, and that was only to reveal her age and birthday to Nedra, the pale reader in that first class.

Marianne and Nedra Stevens were drawn together the same way two falling leaves are thrown together atop a swirling stream.

More or less isolated for the past two, pivotal years of her life, Marianne did not know how girls her age were supposed to behave. So she withdrew into a shell that, even a month later, had been only slightly eroded by Nedra’s gentle personality.

A year younger than Marianne, she presented no threat, and so colorless both in body and spirit as to be practically transparent, she did not intimidate Marianne, nor overshadow her. When Marianne could be dragged from her books, the two girls spent quiet afternoons together.

Nedra told her she lived in a house overlooking the ocean. Marianne described the mysterious wonders of Kingsbrook. Nedra told Marianne of her two brothers, both older than she was; of her mother, who suffered from poor health; of her father and his business of selling water-resistant clothing to the local seamen; and of her cousin, with whom she had been hopelessly in love since she was seven.

For her part, Marianne supposed she may have mentioned her guardian and his physical attributes a time or two.

In fact, Marianne was somewhat distressed to find Mr. Desmond so often in her thoughts. For one thing, there was that envelope she received from Mr. Bradley, Esq., every week. “Mr. Desmond has arranged for you to receive a small allowance to provide for the miscellaneous necessaries of a young woman,” Mr. Bradley explained in a letter accompanying the first banknote. Her clothes were provided, her food was provided, her living quarters and books were provided, and there were very few additional “miscellaneous necessaries” on which to spend the money. She took the bill from the envelope every week and put it in the first very stiff, very white, very solemn-looking envelope she had received from the solicitor’s office. At the end of two months that envelope was becoming quite thick and could not help but remind Marianne of the man and the favors for which perhaps he thought he was paying in advance.

The other reason it was so difficult to dismiss thoughts of Mr. Desmond was, having had Uncle Horace and now Mr. Brannon, the history teacher, as points of comparison, she was beginning to realize how unusually good-looking her guardian was.

“Now, young ladies, I trust you will conduct yourselves as such today. Miss Gransby, Mrs. Grey and myself are here to direct you, but not to tend you as if you were infants. Reading, as you have been told, offers a very fine art gallery where, it is hoped, some of you will be inspired to improve your own artistic efforts. In the Reading museum we will find a number of ancient relics, some dating from the time of Henry I. You remember the remains of the Benedictine abbey we saw. That was founded by Henry I, converted by Henry VIII into a palace….”

Mrs. Avery lectured dryly over her shoulder at the brood of young girls trailing at her heels, all of them agog at the sights and sounds to behold in the town, at the thrill of being on an outing of such magnitude.

Calling it a “marvelous learning opportunity,” Mrs. Avery had already lectured them for hours on the wonders they were to behold at the Reading museum and art gallery, “not to mention—” though she did, often, at great length “—the free lending library, and, of course, the university.”

Whenever Mrs. Avery spoke of the university, she raised her eyebrows and looked over the top of her reading spectacles at the girls. She had warned them that Reading was a university town, but that they were to take no notice of young college men they might see on the streets of the city.

Such warnings were useless. How could the girls, all of them in their teen years, not notice the handsome young men who thronged the streets of Reading, looking terribly serious as they hurried along?

Mrs. Avery had also advised her charges to keep their heads down, their voices low, and to stay in step with the girl in front of them at all times. Instead they clustered together in excited little groups, pointing and giggling shrilly and tending to wander away from the main body, where Mrs. Avery, Miss Gransby and Mrs. Grey could control them.

The schoolgirls’ presence in the art gallery disturbed air that had floated silent and still for decades. Art patrons certainly frequented the gallery, but came singly or in pairs, some of them as old as the paintings themselves. In contrast, these twenty-eight teenage girls moved through the rooms like a fresh breeze.

The paintings were named and described in undertones by Miss Gransby, owing to her passing acquaintance with art and her possession of the guidebook. The task diverted Miss Gransby’s attention from her charges, leaving gentle Mrs. Grey to keep track of all the young women, most of them taller than herself, all of them spryer than she was. When they left the art gallery on their way to the museum, Mrs. Avery stood at the door and counted the girls as they came out. Twenty-eight had gone in; twenty-four came out.

“One or two of the older girls said they were getting a trifle light-headed in the close confines of the gallery and asked if they might step out for a bit of refreshment,” Mrs. Grey offered.

“If they miss the museum or delay the coaches, they will be walking back to the academy,” Mrs. Avery said grimly.

But the girls could not contain themselves. When Mrs. Avery discovered who was missing, she naturally assumed the desertion was of Judith’s, or even Sylvia’s, instigation. She would have been surprised to learn it was Marianne who had first prodded Nedra in the ribs and motioned toward the open side door of the gallery the group was passing.

“Let us go outside,” she whispered.

“Outside?” Nedra gasped. “We mustn’t. They will discover we are gone.”

“Then I shall ask permission,” Marianne said coolly, turning toward Mrs. Grey and claiming that the room was too close.

The two girls slipped out, closely followed by Judith and her friend, who recognized a golden opportunity when they saw one.

“What are we going to do?” Nedra asked fretfully, looking longingly over her shoulder at the dark walls of the gallery.

“We are going to explore a little of Reading. I can see all the dank, dimly lit rooms I want to back at the academy,” Marianne replied.

“What if we are left behind?” the other girl asked.

Marianne, who did not consider the possibility as dire a one as did her friend, patted Nedra’s arm reassuringly. “You must not worry,” she said, though she offered no reason why not.

Reading was a town accustomed to serving travelers and students, the sort of people looking for inexpensive amusement and food, not necessarily in that order. The walkways teemed with cafés and little shops, selling everything from apples to zebra pelts, though those last, upon closer inspection, resembled nothing more exotic than painted cowhides. Marianne was fascinated by it all, and poor little Nedra trailed miserably behind her, sure that the next store proprietor they passed was going to point an accusatory finger at them and demand to know why they were separated from their group.

In fact, it was Nedra, with her nervous paranoia, who noticed the two men huddled over one of the tables placed on the sidewalk to tempt passersby in the warm summer weather. She drew closer to Marianne, who followed her friend’s suspicious gaze with an indulgent smile on her lips. The smile froze. Marianne stopped suddenly in her tracks and then pulled Nedra to one side, first around two or three other pedestrians and then into the open doorway of a bookstore.

“What is it?” Nedra cried in alarm.

Marianne hushed her and motioned toward the two men at the table. “It is my guardian,” she whispered. “It is both my guardians.”

And indeed it was Mr. Desmond, in consultation with her uncle Horace.

With wide eyes the girls watched the two men at the table. They were in earnest discussion, but owing to the distance, Marianne was unable to determine their mood. Both seemed serious, but if either was expressing more volatile emotions, she could not tell.

In a few moments, Mr. Desmond reached into his coat and withdrew a pocketbook. He opened the purse and extricated a sizeable stack of banknotes. Without counting them, he passed the notes across the table to Carstairs, who snatched them up and immediately began to lay them out on the table, doubtlessly in piles of different denominations.

“What are they talking about?” Nedra asked. “Why is he giving him money? What did he pay him for?”

Marianne shook her head silently, watching the two men with wide-eyed fascination. She was very troubled by what she was seeing. She had allowed herself to assume when she left the dark rooms where Uncle Horace lived that that was the last she would see of him, that their relationship was severed. She knew, of course, that he and Mr. Desmond were acquaintances, but she had not thought they had commerce with one another. She believed she was the only business they had transacted.

Now Mr. Desmond held up two fingers and nodded to one of the waiters just inside the door of the coffeehouse. In a few moments drinks were served to the men. Desmond picked up his glass, said something to Carstairs and emptied it in one gulp. Carstairs smiled thinly and sipped at his drink. He nodded and gathered up the money, placing it in the purse attached to a chain he kept in his pocket. Evidently he was satisfied with the amount Desmond had given him and allowed himself another sip of his drink.

Desmond pushed away from the table, but Carstairs did not offer to join him. The younger man turned from the table and walked away, headed toward the bookshop where the two girls huddled just inside the doorway.

With a gasp, Marianne hurriedly stepped back from the door, pulling Nedra to one side, looking behind her to find someplace they could hide if Mr. Desmond came into this shop.

But he did not even glance in their direction as he passed. Marianne kept Nedra hushed and still in the little store for several minutes, long enough so that the clerk approached and loudly asked if he might help them, in a tone of voice suggesting that if he could not, they should leave.

The girls quickly went to the door, but Marianne peeked out and carefully inspected the street and walkways before she ventured out. Mr. Desmond was nowhere in sight. Uncle Horace had also disappeared.

Now it was Nedra who hurried them back along the street toward the museum their schoolmates were visiting, located near the art gallery they had been in earlier. She kept murmuring, “Oh, please, let them still be there,” and “I promise never to do this again, Mrs. Avery.” She had not enjoyed their little adventure.

Marianne did not say anything, but she had not enjoyed herself, either. Half-formed suspicions were like cod-liver oil, easy to swallow but leaving an abominable aftertaste.

In the same city, but in the opposite direction, Mr. Peter Desmond was walking along briskly toward the stable where he had left his horse. His steps were easy; his shoulders seemed lighter. He had made his final payment to Mr. Horace Carstairs. Desmond had never realized before how much he truly detested the man. In recent years he had been required to court Carstairs’s favor owing to his occasionalfrequent, really—cash shortfalls.

He had cleared such loans with Carstairs before, but he had never before been aware of this sensation, like the lifting of a pall. Usually when he paid off a loan he was aware in the back of his mind that he would be getting more money from Carstairs in the future. Today was different. Desmond had not actually formed his decision into a decree or sacred pledge, he simply knew he would not again go to Carstairs for money. Not only because he did not like the man, but because he was not going to allow his bills and gambling debts to accumulate to the point where such a loan would be required. Already his finances were in better order as he gave up the trip to the Continent he always took at this time of the year.

But his determination not to deal with Carstairs again had even deeper roots. It had to do with Marianne and her former association with the man, and with Desmond’s desire to shield her completely from his influence. But now both of them were free of the moneylender’s tentacles, and Peter began to whistle a jaunty tune as he strode along.

Desmond was not a man of great introspection. He only knew it would be a cold day in hell when he crossed paths with Carstairs again.

There were reprimands when Marianne and Nedra caught up with their fellow students in the Reading museum. Judith and Sylvia had returned in good time, having dared only a brief walk up the street. Mrs. Avery had glared at them reproachfully, but the longer they were returned and Marianne and Nedra were away, the less reprehensible Judith’s and Sylvia’s actions seemed.

As soon as Marianne and Nedra arrived, the outing was summarily ended, the girls herded in the coaches and taken back to Farnham, without the promised stop for refreshments. The reprobates were confined exclusively to their rooms and their classes for a month, which actually was not as severe a punishment as Mrs. Avery meant it to be. It took the full month for the other girls at Farnham to forgive them for marring the expedition.

Marianne was deeply sorry she had insisted on the fateful adventure, not only because of the loss of her teachers’ and her schoolmates’ favor. She was frightened by the obviously close connection between Mr. Desmond and her uncle Horace.

Curiously, however, she found she actually missed Kingsbrook. She knew how beautiful the house and park were in the spring, and she imagined the glories of the fields during the summer months. And summer, it seemed, would never end. First there were the academy classes, then the trip to Reading, then banishment to her room, and still the summer sky unfurled its glorious blue overhead.

One day in September, it abruptly came to an end. The sky clouded over, the temperature dropped and the rain began to fall.

It did not stop raining until all the leaves had been beaten off the trees, all the birds driven from the sky, all the flowers left sagging and bent. The weather did not change until November, when the drizzling rain was replaced by flurries of snow. It was only then that the misadventures of summer were at last forgiven.

Mrs. River wrote to Marianne regularly. In almost every letter she urged her to come down to Kingsbrook for a day, a weekend, a fortnight. Marianne always replied to the letters, but refused the invitations, offering as an excuse her studies, which could not possibly be interrupted.

But time was inexorable. The days marched steadily onward. And in December, it seemed that every girl, and almost every instructor as well, was leaving the academy to spend the Christmas holiday with family and friends.

Mrs. River’s note of December third did not brook any excuse.

Rickers will be down to pick you up next weekend. Kingsbrook is lovely this time of year and we have all missed you. I even have a promise from Mr. Desmond himself that he will not be completely engaged in Reading or Londontown for the entire month, so if you are lucky you may get to see him.

We are anxious to have you here.

Fondly yours,

Mrs. River.

“If you are lucky.” Marianne’s hands started to shake when she read the line, but there was no way to avoid returning to Desmond’s home.

Chapter Five

Kingsbrook was beautiful.

There was a light dusting of snow across the grounds, but owing to the brook and the protection of the trees, even in the middle of winter the white flakes lay on green undergrowth.

Rickers stopped the carriage at the side entrance this time, where the drive drew closer to the house. Mrs. River, who had been waiting for their arrival, threw open the long French windows of the south sitting room, and even before Marianne entered she could hear the crackles of the fire and feel a soft brush of warmth against her cheek.

“Come in, come in! Well, let me have a look at you. Farnham seems to be agreeing with you, though perhaps not the academy food so much. Let me take your cloak and bonnet. Alice! Al—oh, there you are. Take Miss Trenton’s things. And ask Jenny if she has any of that broth still hot from lunch. Take those bags up the back stairs, Mr. Rickers. Come in. Come in.”

Marianne felt like the prodigal child returning as the housekeeper ushered her in and clucked over her, imperiously directing the disposal of her effects.

“Now let me get a good look at you,” the woman continued, turning Marianne toward the windows in order to catch the full light of the declining day. She shook her head reprovingly. “You only turned seventeen in November and suddenly you are a beautiful young woman. No, no, do not sit down there. Mr. Desmond said you were to wait for him in the library when you got here.”

Marianne was obviously wearied by the ride from Farnham, so Mrs. River did not think it unusual for her to be pale. Heedlessly, the housekeeper put her hand at the girl’s back and propelled her toward the sitting-room door.

“I trust you remember where the library is. Heaven knows you spent a good deal of time in there when you were here in the spring.”

Evidently Mrs. River was not intending to go to the library with her. This was to be a private interview.

“Is…is Mr. Desmond waiting to see me?” Marianne asked nervously.

“Not at the moment. He rode across the way to talk to Sir Grissam about the woods they share, but he promised he would not be long, and he did want to see you. I thought surely you could find something in the library with which to occupy yourself,” Mrs. River explained.

“Yes, of course,” Marianne murmured.

The door was heavy, but never before had that fact seemed so ominous to the girl. She laid her white hand against the dark wood, reminding herself that Mr. Desmond was not in here yet, might not return for some time. She pushed, the catch gave and the door swung inward with a breathy susurration.

The room was deserted, just as Mrs. River had promised. The books were familiar; the long windows admitted a dim light, choked off by the heavy drapes. The first thing Marianne did was push the curtains back to admit as much of the cold glow of winter as possible. Then she turned around and inspected the shelves, desk, chairs, fireplace; the stepladder to reach the higher shelves; the familiar titles on the lower shelves.

The books that had so intrigued her last time she was here, the tempting volumes she could easily reach but not read, she now knew were written in Latin and Greek, though six months of elementary Latin were not sufficient to allow her to decipher any yet.

She dropped into one of the deep leather chairs set in front of the hearth. A moment later there was a gentle tap on the door. Marianne clutched the arms of the chair as she peered around. “Come—” she cleared her throat “—come in.”

But the head that appeared was covered with a white lace cap, and the slender form was Alice’s. “Mrs. Rawlins sent you in some soup, miss. Welcome home.”

“It is very nice to be home,” Marianne replied automatically, not stopping to consider that it was true.

The little maid set the tray down on the table next to

Marianne. “It’s chicken and noodles, Miss Marianne. Mrs.

Rawlins does a real fine chicken-and-noodle soup.”

“I am sure she does. I am hungry, thank you.”

Alice bobbed her head and left the young lady alone again.

Mrs. Rawlins’s soup was as good as Alice had promised, and in only moments the bowl was emptied, the spoon laid aside.

Marianne’s feet were warm, her hunger quelled. Her nervousness could occupy only a portion of her interest now, she found. There was a volume on the table next to the tray, which she took up and absently began to read. The book was on trees, the various types, their growth and development. It was not riveting reading, though more than one passage was underlined faintly, suggesting someone was perusing the book with interest.

In a few minutes Marianne put the book aside and stood impatiently. She did not remember making a conscious decision to go to Mr. Desmond’s desk. Once there, though, she began idly eyeing the papers and personal knickknacks on top of it.

Among other things there was a large foreign coin set in a circlet of glass, which Mr. Desmond used as a paperweight. Marianne had no way of knowing the coin was from the first international card game Desmond had participated in when a mere lad, still in his father’s good graces, ostensibly in Paris to study the artwork of some of the old masters. The coin was hardly a symbol of victory; Desmond had lost miserably in that game and was forced to cut his “art expedition” short. But the seasoned player who had taken most of his money was the one who had taught him never to leave his opponents penniless. Monsieur Deveraux had presented him with the coin and invited him back another time. Desmond had had a glassblower set it for him as a remembrance. In recent years when he returned to the games in Paris he was the player who doled out souvenirs to unlucky novices.

On the desk there was a letter opener that resembled a small dagger. In fact, it was a dagger—one with which a disgruntled player in Cologne had threatened him.

“Du Schwindler!” the man had screamed, jumping to his feet, knocking his chair over, brandishing the blade before him. “Ich bringe dich um!”

“Oh, do not be ridiculous, old man. I did not cheat you and you certainly are not going to kill me. Give me that little hat pin and go get yourself some good strong coffee,” Desmond had replied, taking the knife from the drunken German as easily as if he had been an old man wielding a hat pin. “Gentleman, I believe it is Bloomingard’s deal.”

Through his years of straight-faced card playing he had learned to hide his emotions and appear perfectly calm, but he had been shaken and kept the dagger as a letter opener to remind himself never to play with a man who paid exact change for his drinks and whose eyes gleamed red when he lost.

There was a worn deck of cards on the desk, an ivory thimble, a small velvet pouch holding an unset gem, each with a story behind it. Most of the objects were connected with some gambling escapade or other, though the thimble was a memento of a more romantic adventure. Marianne, unaware of the personal history each represented, fingered them with mild interest, replacing them thoughtlessly before going on to the next item.

Among the various keepsakes were a number of other things, and a smile nudged at her lips as she looked down at the disorder. Pens were scattered about; an inkstand, stained blotter, writing implements and papers mingled together haphazardly. On one corner of the desk was a pile of letters, some delivered long ago, most of them unanswered, she suspected. She picked up the first envelope and, turning it over, discovered it had not even been opened. In amusement she began to look through them, to find out how many had not been read, let alone answered.

Marianne was halfway through the stack when her conscience began to nag her; what she was doing might be interpreted as snooping. She determined to stop, but contrarily picked up one last envelope. This one had been opened. But her eyes fell on the name of the sender in the top lefthand corner, and every good intention she had of leaving Mr. Desmond’s papers alone vanished.

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